


Paint Splatters

by Kimium



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Calligraphy, Established Relationship, Fluff, Gen, Hint of Kuzuryuu/Pekoyama, Mild Komaeda/Hinata, One Shot, Painting, Therapy, character snippets, post sdr2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-26
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2020-02-04 13:07:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18605137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kimium/pseuds/Kimium
Summary: One shot. Post SDR2."Hajime looked at the walls and floors the next day bright and early. A paint brush was in his hand. Everyone else had a turn, now it was his turn. Tapping the brush on the wall, Hajime sifted through his mind. What to add? What to create?"White spaces are meant to have colour splattered across them.





	Paint Splatters

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone!
> 
> I finally have finished an SDR2 fic. This fic took a very long time to finish but I really do like it. It may feel similar to Healing is a Round Ball, which is an older fic of mine. However, this one has a central theme (painting) and I think I made it more active and with more dialogue. It feels different and I hope you all feel the difference too. Writing as everyone was fun and even if some of their sections are shorter than some of the others I think I captured everyone well (the person who gave me the hardest time was Sonia).
> 
> Feel free to leave kudos and comments as those always make my day! Also if you want to check my tumblr out or talk to me on tumblr/ message me there, my tumblr is right [here](http://www.kimium.tumblr.com).

Hiyoko glanced into the room. The room was a regular square room. Each of the walls were equal in height, equal in length, and entirely white. The floor was smooth bleached wood, as white as wood washed up on the shore of the sea, bleached white by the salt and elements. On the floor were several tin buckets. Hiyoko inhaled and smelt sea salt, heat, and blood. Her fingers twitched at her side and in the back of her mind a pool of blood soaking the beach house floor popped up. Hiyoko sharply exhaled and whirled around, her hair nearly whipping her face. Hinata stood behind her, arms at his side, expression smooth, open, silent.

“What the hell is this?” Hiyoko’s voice was sharp as glass.

“It’s a room.” Hinata replied.

“I can see that.” Hiyoko continued. “Why the hell am I here?”

Hinata gingerly inserted himself into the room, standing out starkly against the white. “Therapy.”

“Therapy.”

Hinata nodded and walked further into the room, closer to the buckets. “Come here, please.”

Hiyoko folded her arms. “No, not until I have a better explanation.”

“I’m attempting to give you one.” Hinata’s voice was mild. “Come here, please.”

The proper answer was to leave. Hiyoko wasn’t under lock and key. Hinata wouldn’t chase her down like a common criminal or a misbehaving child. However, Hiyoko’s eyes flickered to the buckets at Hinata’s feet. She then flickered her eyes back at Hinata. He was still standing.

Hiyoko walked inside, towards Hinata, and folded her arms over her chest. “Fine, but only because I’m nice.”

“Thank you.” Hinata said as he pointed to the buckets. “These are filled with paint.”

Hiyoko glanced downward. Sure enough, the buckets were filled with paint. An array of colours sat in front of Hiyoko, all bright and vivid. There were also buckets with black and white. Hiyoko scowled at the white and glanced at the walls. The white bucket felt redundant.

“I’ve noticed.” Hiyoko drawled. “What of it?”

“I’d like you to paint the walls.” Hinata answered. “Or rather, paint whatever you like on the walls.”

“Is this some bizarre form of art therapy?” Hiyoko distastefully asked before she pulled at her kimono. “I’m wearing a kimono.”

“You can tie the sleeves back.” Hinata pointed out. “Or change. I can bring another pair of clothes for you.”

Hiyoko thought back to the type of clothes she’d seen others paint in: dirty, cheap materials, hanging strangely in the wrong places. She scowled. “No thank you. I’ll keep this on.”

“Excellent.” Hinata moved smoothly around, procuring the strips of fabric for her sleeves seemingly out of nowhere. “I can assist you.”

He then helped without permission. Hiyoko huffed but didn’t move as Hinata worked. When he finished Hinata stepped back. “I also have a tray of paint and some brushes behind the black paint buckets and buckets of water to wash the brushes. Feel free to do as little or as much as you’d like. When you’re done you don’t need my permission to leave. You can just go.”

“So, what if I didn’t paint anything?” Hiyoko asked. “You never told me if this is supposed to be therapy or not.”

“If you don’t paint anything then you don’t paint anything.” Hinata replied. “Also, this is therapy if you wish it to be.”

If she wished it to be? “What kind of half-assed answer is that? You’ve been hanging around Komaeda for too long.”

“Perhaps.” Hinata shrugged. “If there are no other questions, I’ll be off.”

He left and shut the door with a soft click. Hiyoko exhaled sharply and looked at the buckets at her feet. Moving around, Hiyoko saw the brushes and trays Hinata had provided. It was beyond art paint brushes. He also had rolls for long sections of the wall, as though she was painting the entire wall. Hiyoko knelt and examined the brushes. They were all different sizes and shapes. Testing a few, Hiyoko held them in her hand. The wood felt foreign, a useless tool in her hands. Hiyoko practiced a couple of swipes with nothing on the brushes. Her strokes wobbled and weren’t precise. Hiyoko set the brushes down. There was no way she’d paint well with those. Style was everything. Why would she do something if she couldn’t do it with perfection? She wouldn’t dance if she didn’t know the routine or had at least some moves to practice. Without a base of knowledge, Hiyoko was as awkward as a duckling.

She scowled and kicked one of the buckets. The wood of her geta hitting the metal dully clung in the air. The bucket didn’t tip over; it was too full, but some of the paint sloshed down the sides in thick rivers of blue. Hiyoko stared at the paint pooling around the edges of the metal. It created a puddle, like rain pooling on the street corners, waiting to be danced in.

Hiyoko looked at her geta and her thick white socks. She’d ruin them if she kept them on. Taking her footwear off, Hiyoko stood in the room with bare feet. She then looked at the hem of her kimono. She’d dirty it up but that didn’t matter. She’d make Hinata help her clean her kimono. Stepping away from the buckets, Hiyoko took the blue and poured it carefully into a puddle on the floor. She then took another colour, the green, and poured it along. Then another colour, yellow was added, before orange, and finally, pink. Testing the volume of the paint, Hiyoko poked her foot in. Her feet would slide around with ease. Smiling to herself, Hiyoko set the buckets aside and closed her eyes.

The setting shifted and Hiyoko was no longer in the white room. She was on stage in a theater house. The audience was silent, the stage lights on her. The room was waiting with baited breath for Hiyoko to shatter the silence and begin her dancing.

Humming to herself, Hiyoko began to dance. She moved a touch slower than usual, due to her one leg and her testing her balance on the paint. Her feet slid with ease and covered the floor. Twirling and swirling around Hiyoko kept up her routine. The music in her mind swelled gently, a dandelion dancing in the breeze. Green, rolling hills and the sweet smell of grass and flowers ran in Hiyoko’s mind. Her feet smoothly turned, mimicking the hills. Sweet flowers, beautiful bees bumbling around, the lazy shifting of the clouds— all of it danced in Hiyoko’s mind. Then, she shifted the tone in her mind. Her feet hit the yellow paint and suddenly the seasons slowly shifted. Grass dried, the leaves turned vibrant and warm, the sun melted an orange yellow, like melting cheddar cheese. Hiyoko picked her pace up, moving along the warm tones, flinging her arms out with the invisible fans that she didn’t have in her hands. Hiyoko moved along and kept twirling, kept spinning, kept moving. The smell of paint filled her nose and the coolness of the paint on her feet bit in the back of her mind. Hiyoko kept moving along with the wet paint, not stopping, not completing until she felt tackiness under her feet, the liquid all spread out somewhat evenly. Exhaling softly, Hiyoko looked at what she’d created.

The paint was mainly in a huge circle, though some edges were wobblier than the others. The colours had shifted and mixed in mostly pleasing tones, though the warmer tones were a bit darker due to the blue and green shifting in. Over all though, Hiyoko had created a mosaic of paint with her dancing. Perhaps she could touch up in a few areas after she washed her feet, but Hiyoko supposed that could be for later. Despite only dancing for about fifteen minutes, the smell of paint was making her dizzy. Sitting down on a clean spot, Hiyoko examined her kimono and her feet. There was less paint splatter on the fabric than anticipated but there was a bit. Her feet were caked in paint and would have to be washed thoroughly. Poking her foot, Hiyoko felt the slight wetness of the paint. Not wanting to leave any stray foot prints marring her work, Hiyoko waited until her feet were dry, which didn’t take too long. Then, she half crawled to her shoes and socks. She didn’t put her socks on but she put her geta on. Smiling to herself, Hiyoko walked out, glancing one more time at her work, before leaving the room.

~

Painting was like kendo; precise and crisp lines were needed. Peko moved the paint brush crisply along the wall, painting thick lines. The branches needed to contrast the delicate flowers. The colours needed to be soft on the flowers and warm on the branches. Everything in art was order and method. Peko had been trained in many areas and all areas of skill required discipline.

Order was what kept her brain from wandering and order was what kept her grounded. Some would tell her that order took away individuality but who said precision had to sacrifice creativity? Who was the liar that spread the idea rules always hindered the creative process? Who said a person couldn’t sometimes work within confines to create? What’s that how architecture worked? Bridges worked? Sculptures worked? Math and equations kept buildings standing and bridges from collapsing. Process made sure bowls and cups were made perfectly. The same idea applied to painting and drawing.

Peko set the brush down with a plunk into the water, cleaning the brown of the branches away. Picking up another brush, Peko mixed her pink, a warm pink that spoke of delicate life, and painted her flowers with soft, controlled motions.

When Hinata came in, Peko had moved onto some plum blossoms. Hinata gingerly sat beside Peko as she worked. The blossoms took form and began to fill the once empty space just a little bit more.

“It’s beautiful.” Hinata said.

“Thank you.” Peko pressed the brush into another white area.

She continued to paint in silence.

~

Teruteru didn’t paint with paint and brushes. He didn’t paint with ink and pigments mixed in with dyed toxic chemicals. Teruteru didn’t use paper to hold his art and his designs.

Instead, Teruteru created with icing: royal icing, butter cream frosting. He created with recipes and measurements in grams and milliliters. He created with mixing, kneading, and folding. He created with heat and oil. He created in the space of a kitchen, where he knew where everything was. Every cabinet and cupboard held the tools he needed and was memorized.

So, when Hinata plunked him into the white room, save for the thick branches of sakura and plum blossoms on the wall and the circle of colour on the floor, Teruteru frowned.

“You’re going to get me some icing sugar, milk, butter, and food colouring.”

“Am I?” Hinata asked.

Teruteru turned around. Hinata’s expression was mild. “Please.”

Hinata walked inside and touched the white walls. “You don’t wish to step outside your comfort zone?”

“Isn’t therapy supposed to make me feel comfortable?”

“Isn’t therapy supposed to gently nudge you out of your comfort zone every so often?” Hinata countered. “I didn’t think painting would be the area you’d find discomfort.”

Teruteru pressed his lips together and breathed out slowly. “I’m a chef. I use materials I’m used to. I’m not in discomfort. I just have a preference. Similar to how some people enjoy charcoal and some enjoy water colours. I wish to paint with icing.”

“Paint with icing?” Hinata repeated, as though he didn’t hear Teruteru the first time.

Teruteru crossed his arms. “Is that a problem, Hinata?”

Hinata’s eyes flickered for a second before he shook his head. “Very well. I’ll go grab the ingredient you asked for. Hang on tight in the mean time.”

Hinata exited smoothly, not shutting the door. Teruteru breathed out and walked around the room, examining the walls. There was a lot of empty space for him to choose from. He would stay away from Pekoyama’s wall and Saionji’s floor: Pekoyama because she could possibly add to it and Saionji because she’d complain. Reaching a spot that Teruteru felt he’d do well in, he sat down and leaned against the wall he was going to paint on. What would he do? Teruteru closed his eyes. His hands weren’t meant for drawing. His hands were meant for holding kitchen knives. His hands were meant for food and for preparing dishes. His hands were meant for kitchen appliances and dishes. His hands were meant for decorating.

Teruteru opened his eyes. Decorating.

Hinata then walked in with a cart. The cart contained several large bowls, icing sugar, butter, milk, food dye, a mixer, measuring cups, and spatulas. Teruteru stood up as Hinata pushed the cart towards him. Examining the contents, Teruteru gave a small smile.

“Thank you.”

“Not a problem.” Hinata smoothly stepped aside. “Do you want some assistance in mixing the icing?”

Teruteru eyed the single battery powered mixer that Souda had modified. He’d have to clean the beaters with every mix less he muddled his colours up. He had no idea what to paint and he didn’t want to needlessly waste materials on colours he wouldn’t use. Having an extra hand would be nice.

“We’ll start with light colours.” Teruteru decided. “Yellow first.”

“Very well.”

Hinata moved smoothly. Teruteru watched as he added the right amount of icing sugar and milk without using any measuring tools. He then blended the perfect yellow, a pastel yellow, and set it off the side for Teruteru.

“Is that thick enough?”

Teruteru moved the spatula in the icing. It was thinner than what he’d use for a cake but it would spread easier on the wall. “Thanks, it’s perfect.”

Turning to the wall, Teruteru stared. The impractical use of food for painting would cause his work to be removed by Hinata sometime in the future. His work wasn’t permanent, similar to a dish. Food had to be eaten. No matter how beautiful the work or how gorgeous the plating. Food was meant to be consumed, the beauty of it lasting for a fleeting moment in time.

Smiling to himself, Teruteru pressed the yellow on the wall in a similar way he would work a flower on a cake. He worked slowly and carefully. Hinata remained in the background. When Teruteru finished the yellow flower and turned, the orange he wanted to add to the center was already mixed.

~

Methodical, routine, perfection. That was the art of calligraphy. The strokes had to happen in exact order and always in the same directions. Right to left, up and down. Fuyuhiko inhaled and smelt the ink. A scene flashed in his mind: thin rice paper, the ink well and brush, the sultry summer heat, the tatami mat under his legs. Fuyuhiko finished his crisp line and admired his work. He was by no means a poet but he always did his best to compliment Peko’s work. His haiku sprawled on the wall by her flowers, speaking of sakura and plum blossoms. His haiku spoke of spring and life. His haiku spoke of delicate, fleeting nature. His haiku spoke words from his heart.

Fuyuhiko dipped his brush into the ink once again and continued his line of kanji down the wall, the ink never excessive and his strokes always clean. Methodical, routine, and perfection. Calligraphy helped the swirling thoughts in his head disappear and with his work so close to Peko’s, Fuyuhiko knew that she too, helped his swirling thoughts disappear.

~

“D—Do I have to use paint?” Mikan stammered out.

Hinata paused, his hand hovering over the door’s handle. “You’re not going to ask for icing, are you?”

“I—Icing?!” Mikan’s eyes widened. “Is that a n—normal request?”

“…No.” Hinata muttered as he opened the door. “Forget I asked.”

“O—Okay.”

The door opened and the room was revealed. Mikan immediately knew who had come in before her. She glanced around and also saw the buckets of paint and the brushes. She then looked down at her white apron and bit her lip.

“H—Hinata…”

“You don’t have to use paint.” Hinata immediately answered before flushing a bit. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to cut you off.”

“That’s o—okay.”

“What would you like to use?”

Mikan swallowed thickly and felt her face burn. Gripping her hands together tightly, Mikan fiddled a little bit with her apron’s edge. “I’d l—like… crayons.”

“Crayons?”

“Y—Yes?!” Mikan’s cheeks burned hotter. “I k—know it’s a s—strange r—request…”

“It isn’t.” Hinata assured. “I can grab those for you. One moment.”

Hinata left. Mikan stood still and stared at the already slowly filling walls. Most so far had painted on the walls except for Saionji. Mikan bit her lip and imagined what Saionji would say if she drew on the floor too. Maybe she’d accuse Mikan of copying her? In that case maybe she'd avoid the floor.

“Here.”

Mikan nearly jumped and squeaked as Hinata pressed a package of crayons into Mikan’s hands. They were the large sixty-four kind. The kind that children used. Mikan clutched the package.

“T—Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. I’ll leave you to it.”

Mikan opened the package and turned to the wall in front of her. Touching the white surface Mikan then grabbed one of the crayons. It was a bright blue, like the sky outside. Pressing the wax crayon to the wall, Mikan began to draw. Her lines were messy and there was a lot of white space between. The squiggles were wild and when Mikan shifted to adding in the sun the colours half bled into green. Mikan kept on going, adding in her scenery. It was no better than a kindergarten child, but Mikan kept working, smiling to herself as her little scenery came to life.

~

“Mechamaru?” Hinata asked as he sat beside Kazuichi.

Kazuichi nearly jolted and dropped the paint brush. Glancing up while he lay on his stomach was a challenge, but he did so. “Yes, I thought a blueprint would be the best thing to draw.”

“You’re still keeping the soda machine for the eyes?” Hinata asked.

“Yes, otherwise what’s the point?” Kazuichi sat up properly. “I’m also modifying some other things. Mechamaru needs more than just some strange designs Monokuma thought up. I can do one better.”

“You can do more than one better.”

“Thanks, Hajime.” Kazuichi laughed. “You know, it’s liberating to create a blueprint and know I don’t have to make it.”

“It allows fantasy to remain fantasy.”

“You’re so poetic.” Kazuichi elbowed Hinata in the side.

“Am I wrong?”

Kazuichi paused. “Not entirely. I mean, I am adding things that would be challenging to have all at once, but there should be a bit of realism. It helps blur the lines between fantasy and reality.”

“Now who’s the poetic one?”

“Oh hush.” Kazuichi elbowed Hinata again. “Say, what do you think of rocket powered fists?”

“If you’re planning on using that on me, I’ll happily decline.”

Kazuichi laughed.

~

Gundham usually dreamt of his home, the one he lived in with his mother growing up. The kitchen was always bright with sunlight. His mother was at the sink, the one on the far end of the kitchen, facing the backyard. Water ran as she washed the dishes and hummed. Gundham was sitting at the table, feet unable to touch the floor, dangling just a bit. The table was made entirely of wood, thick dark wood. The chairs were taller than Gundham and dwarfed him. The kitchen always smelt of sage and rosemary, of the herbs his mother liked to dry. The sun tasted of love and devotion. The water tasted of purity and life. The kitchen was his mother embodied and embroidered. Everything in the kitchen was his mother personified.

Gundham started his painting by creating angel wings around the sun. He added a crown of sage and rosemary around the sun and wings. He brushed pink around the edges of the wings, soft and pale, and added a river swirling around the wings. He added runes that spoke of protection, of safety. Gundham swirled the magic around the entire drawing, wishing for only the best for his friends and loved ones. His mother had transcended reality and in the drawing was now a guardian being.

Because that was who Gundham had to immortalize. That was who Gundham had to pay homage and respect towards. Protection and magic only came when the person believed in whatever they wanted to protect them.

Gundham had many magic spells with words complicated and rooted in traditions. There were spells based upon different religions, spiritualities, and cultures. However, the strongest protection came from within and Gundham knew that with his mother’s spirit immortalized by paint on the wall, he had painted the strongest protection spell he knew.

~

Assumptions about her always followed the moment people learned who Sonia was.

She was supposed to be like _this_ or _that_. She was supposed to enjoy _this_ and _that_. She was supposed to behave like _this_ and say things like _that_. Sonia was supposed to look like _this_ and look like _that_. She was supposed to say things like _this_ and laugh like _that_.

Sonia was supposed to be a lot of things, or at least, according to others.

Their assumptions sent shivers down Sonia’s spine and bile in her lips and tongue.

So, when it was finally her turn to paint, Sonia mixed the darkest of colours and painted with jagged lines. Sonia made her blacks the darkest and the reds bright and vicious. Her purples were poisonous and the green acidic. Her oranges were muted like the rotting of a pumpkin in November and the yellow beige and brown. Her background was a rainbow of muted, faded, discoloured colours. Her edges were messy and her lines imperfect. Then, in the center she painted in a crown, a broken, tarnished gold crown. The crown was as a child envisions one, tall with many peaks and perfectly circular. Sonia dented the crown and then added in the coldest of whites for the shine, as though the crown was reflecting an icy mountain back at her. Maybe later she’d paint something else, something with vibrant colours. It wasn’t as though she hated vibrancy.

Just, not today.

~

“I can do whatever I want?”

“Why do you all find that so hard to believe?” Hinata asked.

“I don’t know.” Akane muttered. “I just thought you’d have a bunch of rules.”

“Am I coming off as a stickler for rules?”

Akane stared at him.

“Rule one, don’t hurt yourself?” Hinata sighed and tilted his head. “I don’t know?”

“So, if I used my fingers—?”

“Go nuts.”

“If I kicked all the paint buckets?”

“Just don’t ruin Saionji’s work or she’ll be upset.”

“I see.”

Kneeling, Akane dipped her fingers into the red paint, pressing the entire palm against the floor. Pulling away, she stared at the perfect red hand print. She smiled and dipped her hand into the red again, creating a strange pattern with her hands. Distantly she heard Hinata leave, shutting the door. Akane kept working. Washing her hands, she then dipped her fingers into blue paint. Pressing her paint covered fingers to the floor, Akane went at it. She dove wildly into her art, smearing and smudging wherever she wanted. The red mixed with the blue to create purple. Some of the purple was too red and some too blue. Akane loved it. She then stood up and took her shoes off. Dipping her feet into yellow, she pressed footprints around. They weren’t smeared like Saionji’s, but rather like footprints in the sand. The colours half blended but it was clear in her work that she was using her feet and hands to create the art. When she finished her work wasn’t nearly as streamlined as Saionji’s work. Her footprints sometimes blended in and details were lost or sometimes they were barely a whisper against the white floor. It however, was her work and Akane loved it.

~

If Nekomaru was an animal, he’d be one of those sharks that had to keep swimming or they’d die. Expression was about movement and movement meant life and life meant living.

Or at least, that’s what Nekomaru thought. What was the point of remaining static when one could be in motion all their lives? How could people even hope of communicating if they didn’t show their words through actions?

The paint dripped down the wall in thick rivers, staining the boards at the bottom and the floor underneath. Nekomaru threw another dart at another balloon and watched it pop, a river of orange dying the white wall. Hinata had set up the balloon for him and now all Nekomaru had to do was pop them in any order he wished. No brushes, no lines, just pure paint and motion.

Throwing another dart at a balloon Nekomaru watched as blue trailed down the wall, thick and opaque, like his blood in another reality. Pausing, Nekomaru stared at the blue. Memories from the Program stuck softly like imprints in sand. His death in the Program was one in motion too.

Life, death, all of it was in motion.

Nekomaru threw another dart.

~

A kaleidoscope of photos stared back at Mahiru. She had spent the better half of her morning tacking the photos on the wall, interlaying and overlapping some photos and allowing some to freely stay alone. Her own wall in her own cottage was becoming crowded and Mahiru hoped she could continue adding to the wall space she’d claimed as her own. Photos of every day life stood out to her, ones that were posed and ones that were candid. There were blurry shots, clear shots, angled shots, all sorts of shots. Some of her photos were subpar in terms of “art” but Mahiru didn’t care. They were all photos documenting her and her friend’s lives. Time would pass but the memories contained in the photos wouldn’t.

Mahiru took out a brush and some paint. She dipped the brush in and began to paint swirls and curls around some of the photos. She painted thick rectangles around some of the photos and thin rectangles around some other ones. She created small images on the side to suit the photos. Then, Mahiru began to write captions under the photos. She wrote and wrote until the entire wall was nothing more than a giant scrapbook.

~

A bit of green here. A bit of turquoise there. Byakuya worked within shapes and blobs. There was no rhyme or reason for their placement of images. Art was meant to be a free expression, to not be held within limits or boundaries. People were so willing to put labels on things and sometimes, they needed to be challenged with the idea of abstract. What was Byakuya painting? They didn’t know. Perhaps when they looked at it today, they’d think something different than the day after or a week later. Maybe they’d see their art in one way and someone else would see it in another. That was how human perspective worked. People were different and held unique perspectives. Nothing was ever fully nailed down, so Byakuya wouldn’t nail down their art either. Freedom was the best kind of expression, after all.

~

Words were another form of art. She herself was a composition of music, all muddled together like a giant melting pot of sounds and words. It was Ibuki’s job to pluck the sound out of her soul. Ibuki knew how to string words together into phrases and sentences into poetry. She knew how to attach notes to the words, cords that made her poetry into a living, breathing entity. Ibuki knew how to then use her voice to fully sculpt and shape her words, make them vibrate and dance in the air like stained glass rocks being pelted against the side of a metal house. Ibuki was filled with music and she always loved being able to spill it out of herself.

The brush moved against the floor and walls, sprawling in a string of words that were disjointed by the angle. Ibuki’s words were crisp and ink splattered. Her words were neat and messy. Her lyrics were sprawled in half formed ideas about love, the cosmic universe, and of the crisp clean taste of mint. Music notes hovered and floated over her words. Key signatures danced, crescendos and decrescendos were foot notes to her words, and pauses were just small lightning bolts or hats placed around the edges of phrases and words.

Ibuki’s music notes, lyrics, and key signatures were in black. There was no colour to them, no vibrancy because it wasn’t the act of writing them down that brought life to her art, it was Ibuki herself who poured colour of her lips and breathed life into her art.

~

“I’m last.” Nagito muttered.

“Is that a problem?” Hinata asked.

Nagito turned to Hinata and shook his head. “Forgive me. Was I complaining?”

“You weren’t.”

“Glad to hear.” Nagito smiled. “Everyone’s already done such wonderful work.”

“They have.” Hinata agreed. “What are you going to create?”

Nagito looked at the empty space on the walls. What would he create? What could he add to the walls? “I’m not sure.”

“You don’t have to rush it.” Hinata gently touched Nagito’s shoulder. “Take your time.”

Nagito half turned to Hinata. His Hinata. “Would you stay with me?”

“If you want me to.”

“I want you to do many things.”

“I can do many things.” Hinata replied. “You need only to ask.”

Hinata, if Nagito could equate him to something, was a sunflower. Hinata turned towards the sun, always following the direction. No matter where the sun wanted to go or move to, Hinata was present. Nagito in the moment, felt like he was the sun. Gently he reached out and touched Hinata’s face. Hinata sunk into the touch, closing his eyes. Nagito stared at his hands, the real one and the metal one. Hinata didn’t flinch at the coolness of the metal or the warmth of Nagito’s right hand. Hinata was solid and warm on one side and distant on the other. Yet, he was still present, not moving. Nagito’s heart welled and burst, like a star collapsing on itself.

“I want you to hold me as I paint.”

Hinata opened his eyes. “That’s a strange way to request cuddling.”

“Who said it would be like a cuddle? What if I only wanted you to hold my hand?” Nagito shot back.

“You don’t want cuddles?” Hinata asked. “I like holding you.”

Nagito flushed. “You’re being sappy.”

“You’re the one who asked me to stay and to hold you.” Hinata retorted.

“You’re the one who agreed to say and hold me.”

They stared at each other.

Hinata laughed gently and leaned in, pressing the lightest of kisses to Nagito’s lips. “We’re both sappy. Now, come on, get to painting before people accuse us of being indecent in here.”

“Is that how they thought we’d act in here?” Nagito raised an eyebrow. “Automatically?”

“Maybe some of them.” Hinata muttered. “Or maybe I was reading too much into their expressions.”

Nagito rolled his eyes. “I’ll behave if you behave.”

“Fair proposition.”

They both sat down by the paint, Hinata behind Nagito, pulling him onto his lap. Nagito warmly smiled at the heat of Hinata, the warmth and smell of him. Picking up a paint brush, Nagito stared at the colour array in front of him. Hinata truly thought of everything. Hinata was always taking care of not just everyone but of Nagito too.

Dipping his brush into the yellow, Nagito drew out a sunflower from memory on the floor. He worked slowly, hoping to not mess up his work. Then, when he was satisfied, Nagito then drew a four-leaf clover intertwining with the steam of the sunflower before coming to face the flower itself. The drawing was simple but it warmed Nagito’s heart.

“Is this like when you write your crush’s name in your notebook beside yours?” Hinata mildly asked.

“Who said you’re my crush?” Nagito asked as he added more to the sunflower’s steam.

“I did.” Hinata boldly answered. “Because you’re my crush and I’m very much in love with you.”

Nagito’s heart thumped out of beat and his hand stopped moving the paint brush.

“Sap.” He managed to spit out.

“You love it.”

Hinata hugged Nagito a bit tighter and Nagito found he didn’t have the energy to say anything else witty. Instead he flushed and that was all the response Hinata would need.

~

Hajime looked at the walls and floors the next day bright and early. A paint brush was in his hand. Everyone else had a turn, now it was his turn. Tapping the brush on the wall, Hajime sifted through his mind. What to add? What to create? Ideas swirled and coiled. Sure, he could pull out some talent and draw something grand. He could create whatever image he wanted. However, that felt wrong. Hajime didn’t want to draw something. He didn’t want to create something simply because he could. Hajime wanted to create something from his heart, something he truly believed in.

When he put it that way, the ideas easily stopped swirling and settled, like fine dust in water. Dipping the brush into the paint, Hajime closed the door and began to paint on it. His strokes weren’t nearly as precise as Pekoyama’s or Kuzuryuu’s but they were his own. The work didn’t take more than three minutes, but it was from his heart and that was what counted.

Stepping back, Hajime opened the door and let the paint fumes air out. He then washed the brush in the bucket of fresh water he’d filled earlier. The minimal amount of paint barely coloured the water but his work was very real.

Setting the brush to dry, Hinata left the room, shutting the door. “Future” would stare into the current empty room, only to be seen when eventually one of them would return to their artwork and continue to paint in the white space until there was only colour.

Just like the colour their future was always holding within them.

**Author's Note:**

> Geta: traditional wooden sandals for kimono
> 
> Painting with icing: I watched a video (Rosanna Pansino aka Nerdy Nummies if anyone is wondering) of her painting with icing and I thought it would be something Teruteru would do. The icing he made, by the way, is a buttercream frosting. You can make it as thick or as thin as you want depending on how much milk and icing sugar used.
> 
> Calligraphy: Kanji have specific strokes and you do them in specific order. For calligraphy it's stepped up a notch with you following the directions of the lines (always right to left and always from top to bottom).
> 
> Gundham's mother: He describes her as an angel (well he says he's from a union between an angel and a demon somewhere in his FTE I'm not looking it up to double check it's almost one in the morning here) and I wanted to play on that.
> 
> Kicking the paint buckets: I didn't manage to get anyone to do that :(
> 
> Sharks: Not all sharks need to keep moving to stay alive however I believe there are some species that fit that requirement.


End file.
